If Not in This Life
by btr2272
Summary: ...then in the next. Because d.eath cannot stop true love. It can only delay it for awhile. Until the 21st century, even.
1. Chapitre Un : Réunions Étranges

_Her breathing was labored. Her gasps shuddered through her frail body. He couldn't believe it, wouldn't believe it. But he could hear last breaths as she tried to speak. "You've got to go on."_

_He tightened his grip on her shaking frame, tears blurring his vision. "Can't go on without you, though." He managed to choke out._

_She inhaled, with difficulty. Her eyes, seemingly unfocused, snapped back and stared straight into his. He brushed a piece of hair out of her face as she struggled. She couldn't be dying. Not his one and only love. Not after having won, having the right ending. "You've got so much…to give." She told him, her breaths coming shorter. "Tell our story."_

_"No…" He protested. How could he bear to recall the story of a love that overcame all obstacles, when she wasn't there to share it with him? 'Come What May' was supposed to get them through everything together, not him on his own, without her. He started shaking, and the tears flowed freely down his cheeks. He held her tighter, wishing with all his might that he be able to save her._

_"Yes…yes…" she was fading fast, a star falling out of the sky. She grew weaker by the second, but continued to try and hold on for him._

_They had fought so hard, and to have it end like this. The onstage story ended right, but backstage, in real life…it was all wrong. How could he write that? How could he ever write again? And yet he agreed, choking out a "Yes." He couldn't refuse her wish. As hard as it might be, he'd do it. He'd write it, for her. For them._

_"I will…" Her breaths were shallow, few and far between. "I will always be with you." She drew a last shaky breath, and then she was gone. He stared, disbelieving, at her body in his arms. As tight as he held her, she had still slipped through his fingers. He whimpered, before crying out in anguish, sobbing for his lost love._

Connor Amour sat straight up in bed, shaking uncontrollably. He panted, trying to calm down, but the pain-filled scream still echoed in his mind. He'd had dreams like this before, but none so vivid as that one. He stood and walked over to his window, gazing at the New York skyline. It was breathtaking, and would probably help him relax. That, and some tea. He wished all of the rest of his things were here, then he could make some.

He'd only moved into this tiny apartment today, and the only things filling it were his bed, a kitchen table, boxes of this and that, and a sofa. The boxes of other, _useful_, things wouldn't come until tomorrow. Connor plodded into the living room in the hopes of finding a pad of paper. Writing always helped him think straight, especially with strange dreams. He found one and dug up a pencil before sitting down on his couch.

Even though he was a newly hired reporter for the _Times_, Connor was having trouble writing. Spewing out facts without an opinion or even a care was different then writing a novel, something he'd always wanted to do. A romance novel, a simple story about love. Not about someone being ed or a building set on fire. But the little muse inside his head seemed to have gone out on a coffee break, and Connor sat staring at the pad of paper. Why was he was having dreams about a woman dying in his arms? He rubbed his eyes. Perhaps his depressing job was getting to him.

He became aware of piano music coming through the walls. It was pretty, until a jarring chord rang out loud and clear. Connor, annoyed and still a bit shook up, shouted at the wall. "Hey! Keep it down!"

He glanced at his clock. Who could be playing the piano at three in the morning? Momentarily forgetting his dream, Connor threw on his bathrobe and went to meet his new-and apparently, music appreciating-neighbor.

* * *

Most people woken at 3 a.m. by their roommate playing the piano would not only be extraordinarily mad, but would also consider getting a new roommate. For the three men occupying this apartment, however, it was quite normal. On this morning, Thomas, newly awoken, wandered into the living room and barely glanced at Sydney. Sydney hit a wrong note and cursed loudly, which led to Antonio meandering into the kitchen and beginning to make coffee.

"Inspired?" Thomas asked, yawning.

Sydney grunted and made a note on his sheet music. Thomas flopped down on the sofa and turned on the TV. He made sure to mute it and put on captions, for otherwise Sydney would maul him. Sydney began the series of notes again, and at the same point as before, shouted something that would make a sailor blush.

"I can't get the right note!" he fumed. "The rest of the phrase just--_came_ to me, but this last damn note-!" he pounded on several keys angrily.

"C sharp." Antonio called in a bored tone from the kitchen.

Sydney paused, then experimentally played the phrase again, this time with the C sharp at the end. It fit perfectly. He wrote down the note. "You're brilliant."

"I know." Antonio replied. "Want coffee?"

"Tea." Sydney continued on with his composing.

"I want an Irish coffee!" Thomas announced.

There was a sigh from the kitchen. "You're going to have liver failure."

"You're going to get syphilis." Thomas retorted, flipping channels. He ignored Antonio's angry reply and focused on the small news report on a new Broadway musical. The plot sounded interesting, and the scenery looked spectacular. Thomas took the mute off momentarily to catch the last few strands of one of the songs. The report ended, and a commercial came on. Thomas sighed and hit mute. "Why can't we do that?"

"We don't have a writer." Sydney muttered, holding his pencil between his teeth.

The men had been trying for years to come up with a Tony-winning Broadway show. The plan was for Thomas to direct, Antonio and his friend to choreograph, and Sydney to compose the music. All that was missing from their creative team was someone to write it. That, and a producer with lots of cash.

Antonio came out of the kitchen and put a cup of tea on the piano. Sydney gave a grunt of thanks. Antonio handed Thomas his Irish coffee and sat down on the couch. "We also currently have no star." He reminded the others, picking up a magazine from the coffee table.

Thomas sipped his drink. "Sophie just needs convincing. Once we have a writer, both she and a producer will beg us to let them be part of it."

Another jarring chord sounded from the piano. Sydney threw his pencil across the room. "Godammit! I've lost it!"

"Drink your tea and the muse will return." Antonio assured him, not looking up from his magazine.

Sydney angrily swallowed his tea. Thomas changed the channel. "Just you wait. Our writer will drop in when you least expect it."

At that moment, there was a knock on the door. The men exchanged glances before Thomas hopped off the sofa and went to answer it. There stood a young man, probably early twenties, looking partially annoyed and a tad distressed. "You are aware that it's three in the morning?" he asked Thomas.

"Really? I thought it was almost lunchtime." Thomas answered without a drop of sarcasm in his voice.

"Not that it matters, you'll drink any time of day." Antonio pointed out from somewhere behind him.

The young man looked at him like he was insane. "I'm sorry." Thomas apologized. "We're artists, you see. I paint, Antonio dances, and you know already about Sydney's composing…" he looked over his shoulder at the fuming musician. "We work when inspiration comes."

The man relaxed a little. "I know how that feels."

"You're an artist?" Thomas opened the door wider, motioning for the man to come in.

"A writer." The man cautiously entered the apartment.

The hair on the back of Thomas' neck stood up as he closed the door. 'A writer!' he mouthed to his roommates. But beside that exciting fact, Thomas felt he had met this man somewhere before. There was something so…_familiar_ about him. Thomas shook himself slightly. He focused on the young man, now sitting on their sofa, and tried to find a way to convince him to write their musical. "So…what do you write?"

The young man glanced from Thomas to Antonio, who was pouring him some tea before answering. "I'm a journalist, I write for the _Times_."

"No experience in Broadway then?" Thomas wondered hopefully.

Antonio handed the man his tea and glared at Thomas. He turned to the young man. "Ignore him, he has delusions of grandeur."

The man nodded slowly, looking like a deer caught in the headlights. "I…helped re-script some things in high school."

"Perfect!" Th claimed.

"Thomas, you haven't even introduced yourself and you're already scaring him." Antonio sat down beside the young man.

"That's different, usually you introduce and then scare." Sydney commented, idly playing the first few measures of 'The Sound of Music'.

"Oh, sorry." Thomas plopped down beside Antonio. "I'm Thomas--,"

_"My name is Henri Marie Raymond Toulouse-Lautrec Montfa."_

He blinked. That strange voice in his head…sounded kind of like his own. It felt familiar, like a memory, but he'd never heard that name in his life. Dismissing it as one of the products of his confusing mind, he continued on. "--that's Antonio, and the grumpy piano player is Sydney."

"Nice to meet you…" the man said in a very scared voice. "I'm Connor…"

"Hello. Would you be interested in writing a Broadway musical for us?" Thomas inquired, which resulted in being smacked on the head by Antonio.

"But we haven't read anything he's written." Sydney mentioned. "We don't know if he's good."

"He's good. I can tell." Thomas declared.

"I haven't actually agreed to anything yet…" Connor said quietly. He was ignored.

"You would take any writer you found, good or not." Antonio crossed his arms and glared at Thomas.

Thomas closed his eyes in frustration. He couldn't explain how he knew this stranger was the writer they'd been searching for. Perhaps it was the familiarity, perhaps it was that odd voice in his head, perhaps it was just instinct. But Thomas _knew_, and he'd do anything to prove it.

"I'll show you." He shoved a pad of paper at Connor. "Write something, anything." Thomas turned to his roommates. "Trust me. This is a good idea."

"You thought that making Tofu turkey for Thanksgiving last year was a good idea." Antonio pointed out. Thomas opened his mouth to make a comeback statement, but Antonio plowed on. "You thought that going ice fishing on the Hudson was a good idea. You thought that having a bonfire on the roof was a good idea. Pardon me if I have a few objections to your latest 'good idea'."

Connor stared down at the paper in stunned silence as his new neighbors argued around him. He had never said he wanted to write a musical. He had no idea how he'd suddenly become a part of this scheme. And yet…a thought became an idea, an idea became a plot, and a plot would soon become a story as he began to scribble furiously on the paper.

Three a.m. passed to four a.m. as he wrote. One of them played soft music on the piano, strands of songs he half-recognized. Another went somewhere and reappeared only to refill his teacup when it was getting low. And the third one, the shorter one who, for some reason, believed that there was something in Connor worth finding, sat beside him on the sofa and simply watched. Watched him erase, watched him crumple sheet after sheet, watched him stare at the paper in hopes of an idea. Four became five as he finished and held it out, in triumph, to the man beside him.

Thomas read the short story Connor had produced. What it was about didn't matter. It was the way the words flowed, the way they described joy and pain, the way everything just magically clicked. He showed it to Antonio, who grudgingly began to read it. Twenty minutes later, a shell-shocked Antonio handed the pad of paper back to Thomas. "We've found him."

Thomas gazed at the now-sleeping writer on their sofa. "Indeed we have, my friend." He whispered. "Indeed we have."


	2. Chapitre Deux : Engagez Les Idées

_Hey all. I apologize if the Spanish you encounter in this chapter is incorrect, I don't take Spanish. I'm a French gal. Also, QuikEdit's decided to h.ate me and if something looks weird, I'm sorry. And I completely forgot the disclaimer last time, yeesh. Moulin Rouge and everything along with it belong to the infamous Baz Luhrmann and Craig Pierce. I am not worthy. Anywho, enjoy the chapter!_

Connor was awoken by the smell of bacon. He sat up, yawning, trying to remember where he was. He glanced around, piecing together hurried memories of the night before. All that jumped out at him was an assertive short man, jarring piano, and this horrible cramp in his hand. He was stretching it when the door opened.

A woman, dark-haired, fairly thin, and apparently grumpy entered the apartment. She stormed right past him and into the kitchen, where she began screaming in Spanish. "**_¡Necesito el café!_** **_¡Si usted me está arrastrando fuera de cama a las ocho, por lo menos usted podría darme el café!_**"

"**_¡Mi dios, Natalie!_**" A male voice shouted in return. Connor could vaguely place it with a clouded image of the man who gave him tea.

"Good morning, Natalie. I see we got up on the wrong side--Ow!" That was the voice of the assertive short one. Connor rubbed his eyes, feeling like he'd fallen down a rabbit hole. A rabbit hole in the middle of New York City with crazy Hispanic women.

"Shut up, Thomas." Was the reply from the woman. She marched back out into the living room and sat on the sofa beside him, deeply inhaling the steam rising from her coffee cup. "Ah, caffeine." She glanced up from her coffee, then did a double-take and stared at him. "**_¿Quiénes son usted?_**"

"I…" Connor stammered. "I don't speak Spanish."

"Don't scare him, Natalie, we need him." Thomas called from the kitchen.

"Thomas, you already scared him at three A.M. this morning." The other man-Antonio?-replied.

"It wouldn't be New York if people didn't scared at odd hours of the morning." Thomas walked out into the living room, holding a cup of what was most likely Irish coffee. He plopped down between Connor and the woman. "Natalie, Connor; Connor, Natalie." He turned to Connor and whispered loudly. "She's Antonio's _girlfriend_."

"**_¡Usted es tan no maduro!_**" Natalie whacked him upside the head. "**_Un día, Thomas, yo voluntad...!_**"

Sydney trudged out into the living room. He grunted at the people on the sofa and continued on into the kitchen. "I smell food…"

"Anyway, Natalie, Connor is our writer." Thomas raised his eyebrows at the woman.

She sipped her coffee unenthusiastically. "So? It's not like we have the money."

"Or the actress!" Antonio called from the kitchen.

"The glass is half-empty for all of you, isn't it?" Thomas grumbled. He looked at Connor. "You look lost."

Actually, Connor just _felt_ lost. He still wasn't sure what deal was apparently signed last night that involved him. His whole memory was a little foggy. He just wanted to go back to his own apartment and make a nice cup of tea. He sighed quietly. "I'm…a little confused."

"It's simple." Natalie said with a grimace. "Thomas has a ridiculous dream that we can put on a Broadway show with him directing, Sydney composing, Antonio and me choreographing, and now, you writing." She shot a look at Thomas. "Note the lack of a producer to fund it."

"And our lead actress." Antonio added loudly.

Thomas gave a cry of frustration and leapt to his feet. "Look, I'll get Sophie to come back, alright? And with Sophie, we can get any producer in this town."

"Sophie!" Natalie scoffed. "Why would she come back to us?"

Sydney wandered out of the kitchen, nursing a cup of tea. He sat down at his piano bench. "You two have been friends since high school, you can stop pretending to hate her."

"Look, she left us! And now that she has her movie producer-boyfriend, she ain't coming back!" Natalie cried, slamming her cup onto the coffee table.

Thomas' eyes lit up and he turned to look at Natalie. "Movie producer?"

"Thomas, don't even think about it." Antonio warned.

"But if we get Sophie to be in it, then he'll definitely want to help us out!" Thomas e.xclaimed, bounding over to where the phone lay.

"Natalie, stop him!"

The woman launched herself from the sofa and towards Thomas, who grabbed the cordless phone and made a mad dash to his room. Antonio raced out of the kitchen to try and tackle him. Connor watched all of this and wondered exactly what he had gotten himself into.

* * *

The actress being discussed was currently walking to a café for a breakfast date with the aforementioned movie-producer boyfriend. She was a tad excited, he said he had a surprise for her. Could it finally be that movie contract he'd been promising? She got shivers at the thought. Maybe she was finally breaking away from the stage acting, away from Broadway, away from Thomas' crazy dream.

Her cell phone rang. She dug it out of her purse and flipped it open. "Hello?"

"Good morning, starshine!"

Sophie grimaced. "What do you want, Thomas?"

"I want to talk to you, isn't that why people use the phone?" Thomas asked, his voice sickeningly sweet.

"No. You _want _something." She replied. "What is it?"

He changed the subject entirely. "You know, someone just moved into that apartment next door."

"Thomas, I can't play mind games right now, I'm on my way to meet Dominic." Sophie waited impatiently at a corner for the Don't Walk sign to change.

She'd stopped talking to Thomas and his friends over six months ago, when she'd decided to take her chances and become a movie star. And yet, six months and nothing but the odd commercial and a semi-controlling boyfriend. But she wasn't giving up hope, everyone starts somewhere. But that Somewhere, the stage, was gone and past, meaning it's acquaintances, namely Thomas, should be gone too.

Unfortunately, he wasn't. "You want to guess who our new neighbor is?"

"Not really." She said, stepping off the sidewalk as the light changed to Walk.

"A writer!" he exclaimed.

She was so very, very tempted to hang up on him right then and there. He'd actually managed to find a writer crazy enough to go along with the Dream. And now, inevitably, he wanted her back to fill the female lead. Well, she'd have none of it. The only time she acted was before a camera.

"No." Sophie dodged a woman pushing a stroller.

"You haven't even met him!" Thomas cried.

"And I never will, because I am not acting in your show." She wanted to stick her tongue out at him, but he was blocks away and wouldn't see it.

"Just come listen to the pitch, Sophie. Listen to what he's written, it's _spectacular_!" He pleaded. She didn't respond. "Please?"

She sighed. It was just a pitch. All she had to do was go listen to some amateur writer for an hour or two, and then leave. It wasn't a commitment, it wasn't a binding contact. Plus, it would get Thomas off her back for awhile, and that was all that mattered. "Fine."

He yelled so loudly that she had to hold the phone away from her ear. "Great! Oh, you won't regret this Sophie, I promise!"

Sophie was approaching the café and could see Dominic waiting at a table for her. "Yeah, yeah. I'll be there around noon. Good-bye." With that, she hung up and slid into her seat. "Hi, honey."

Dominic kissed her cheek. "Hey babe. Who were you talking to?"

Sophie sighed in annoyance. "Thomas. I told you about him, right?"

He gave her a Look. "You complain about him all the time."

"Yeah, well, he's managed to find some desperate writer and is trying to make me act in his show." She grimaced as she took a sip from his coffee cup.

Dominic took his coffee cup back and gave her another Look. "I'll order you some coffee if you want some so badly."

Sophie stared down at her lap. She kept trying to force that habit back. Dominic didn't like it when she drank from his cup, or ate from his plate, or tried to take anything away from him, for that matter. It was probably his biggest pet peeve, and her oldest--and probably her worst--habit. "Sorry." She smiled briefly, trying to cut the sudden tension. "I need a cup of coffee to remember not to take your cup of coffee."

He raised his eyebrow and barely gave her a smile. "So, you're going back to the stage, then?"

"No!" Sophie cried, horrified. Didn't he know her by now? That was the last thing she ever wanted to do. Go back to hours of rehearsal, long nights performing, head _always_ aching beyond all reason? No, that was not the life for her. True, the screen would have it's own pros and cons, but the stage…the stage was far worse.

"Don't shout." He reprimanded, then suddenly sat up straighter in his seat and furrowed his brows. "Does…does he have a producer?"

"No, thank God." Sophie replied. "And he probably won't…" she trailed off, realizing what he was getting at. "Oh no, Dominic, what about my contract?"

"Sophie, I have no current projects going on since I've been here in New York with you instead of back home in LA. I think your friends' show would be a good investment, especially…" he fixed his steeled gray eyes on her. "…if you're in it."

"But…" she stared at him, silently pleading. She just wanted a movie contract. She wanted nothing more to do with this show. But he was giving her that Look, that 'I know better than you, so do as I say' Look. So she gave in. "Fine. I was going to meet Thomas and hear the pitch anyway." She mumbled.

"That's settled then. If it's any good, tell me." Dominic seemed to remember something. "Oh, I forgot." He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a ring box. He put it on the table in front of her. "We're getting married."

Sophie stared at the little box in shock. She finally managed to choke out a response. "We…we're what?"

"You and I are going to get married." He said briskly. "If you're going to be a movie actress, people will be seeing quite a lot of you, and it's important that they know who you belong to."

She had too many thoughts and feeling running through her to do more than nod. "Um, alright, if that's what you think is best."

"It is." He looked at her, then at the ring box. "Well, put it on, I didn't buy it so it could sit in a box."

She numbly reached forward, opened the box and slipped the ring onto her finger. She stared at it, feeling like it weighed down her whole hand. She suddenly felt a pressure on her neck.

_She stared at herself in the mirror as he clipped the choker around her neck. It didn't feel like an elegant diamond necklace. It felt like a collar. She couldn't breathe right, something was wrong. She soberly understood the meaning of the gift. She was his property. He **owned** her. _

"_Accept this as a gift from this Maharaja to his courtesan." He whispered._

_And the dreams of flying away began to fall to pieces._

Sophie's hand flew to her neck. She half-expected to feel the cold rocks against her skin. What had that been? It felt so real. As if she'd been dreaming and just woken up. That's what it must have been. A fragment of a dream she'd not remembered having.

"I have an appointment. Enjoy the pitch. Love you." He kissed her cheek once more and left the café.

Sophie sat there in stunned silence, feeling as though she'd made the biggest mistake of her life in ever having met Dominic Duque.

* * *

Connor was relatively happy now that he'd taken a shower and the rest of things had been delivered. He pushed his desk into place, panting heavily. "I need to exercise." He muttered to himself. He was completing the "moving in" process with all the large furniture, the boxes of stuff would have to wait. He plopped down in his office chair, spinning back and forth.

"It's nearly noon. Sophie should be here." Antonio had graciously offered to unpack the boxes of kitchenware.

"So should Thomas and the others." Connor spun aimlessly in his chair.

Right on cue, Thomas burst in. He surveyed the bare walls. "You need some color. Remind me to give you one of my paintings." He strolled right in and sat down on the small sofa, putting his feet up on a nearby box.

Not long after, Natalie and Sydney entered, making themselves comfortable on the scarce pieces of furniture. They all began discussing a possible plot for the show, but most ideas were vetoed. Then, the door opened and a woman entered, holding a piece of paper and scowling. Connor was suddenly fixated on her. She was beautiful, with wavy auburn hair and steely blue eyes. Was this the famed Sophie? He certainly hoped it was.

" 'Next door, starshine.'" She read of the paper then glared at Thomas. "Will you stop calling me that?"

"I could call you 'bejeweled vision'." Thomas offered.

She glowered. "I'll stick with 'starshine', thanks."

She tentatively sat down on the arm of the sofa, surveying her surroundings. She gave a little wave to Sydney and Antonio and ignored Natalie's look of contempt. Her gaze wandered to Connor. "Is this him?"

"Yep. Sophie, this is Connor, the writer." Thomas introduced rather proudly.

Connor got out of his chair and went to shake her hand. "Nice to meet you." He suddenly realized sickeningly that she wore a ring--an expensive looking one, at that. She was someone else's beautiful wife. He envied that man as he returned to his chair.

Natalie, too, noticed the ring. "Present from your boyfriend, Sophie?"

She glanced down at it uncomfortably. "Um, yeah. We--we just got engaged." She avoided everyone's eyes.

"Good!" Thomas said brightly. "Hey, do you think he would like to produce--" Natalie gave his head a good whack.

"Actually, Thomas, Dominic did seem interested in producing." She told them. "But, um, he wanted to know what the plot was."

"We were discussing that." Sydney replied.

Thomas hopped up. "Okay, what musical does America love?"

"_Cats_." Antonio said, hatred apparent in his voice.

"I'd think _RENT_. A lot of people like that." Sophie nodded.

"_West Side Story_. Except most people have only seen the crappy movie." Natalie scowled.

Sophie rolled her eyes. "You only think it's crap because they screwed up 'America'."

"Precisely."

Connor nibbled the end of his pencil. "I dunno. _A Chorus Line _did have the longest run until--"

"_Cats._" There was possibly more hatred in Antonio's voice that time.

"Nah. It's definitely gotta be _Sound of Music_." Sydney said with a nod.

"**EXACTLY**!" Thomas e.xclaimed. "Everyone loves _The Sound of Music_! And why do they all love it?"

"Because Rogers and Hammerstein were brilliant men." Sydney stated.

"Because Julie Andrews has an amazing voice?" Sophie shrugged.

"It was a true story." Connor pointed out. "People like that."

"Wrong!" Thomas shouted. "It's because it was set somewhere exotic!"

"…Since when is Austria exotic?" Antonio asked.

"I thought it was exotic Switzerland." Thomas muttered to himself.

Connor listened to them argue. Thomas seemed focused on the setting instead of the story. Perhaps it was good to know where the setting would take place, but you needed at least a theme, a major idea to be conveyed. He tapped his pencil to his lip, thinking. The term 'exotic Switzerland' had triggered something. Something was nagging at the back of his mind, and he couldn't figure out what it was. It was on the tip of his tongue. An idea, a theme…

_"Ugh... The story-the story's about…"_

_All eyes were on the small man, and he floundered about trying to come up with an answer. What was the story about? He didn't know, none of them knew. But their investor didn't have to know that. _

_The small man tried again. "It's- it's about, um..."_

_An idea struck him suddenly, and he didn't have time to think about it as the words sprang from his lips._

"It's about love!"

The room grew silent at Connor's suggestion. Connor didn't know where it came from, and he honestly didn't care. He just decided to roll with it, ignoring the growing sense of déjà vu. "Yeah, the show, the show's about love!" He couldn't find the right words, and racked his brain for more.

_He ignored their investor's sneer and continued on, an idea hurriedly taking shape in his mind. This was not about just love! It was more than that. More words flew out of his mouth._

"It's about love overcoming all obstacles!"

He jumped out of his chair and began to pace. "Yes, that's it. It's set in--"

"Switzerland?" Thomas supplied helpfully.

"No." he shook his head. Where were these ideas coming from, and why did they feel so familiar? There was something eerie about him pulling ideas out of thin air. He wasn't really pulling them, they were--being supplied. Someone was handing him these ideas, and he didn't want to find out whom. He broke away from them and began to spin his own tale.

"It's set in France, World War Two era. There's a young man, a soldier, and he receives a letter that's not addressed to him. Someone at the post office or wherever made a mix up, and he goes to give the letter to its rightful owner."

He was pacing furiously now, and the story--_his_ story, not his mysterious supplier's--was spinning out in his head. "The intended recipient is a young woman. The letter was from the man her parents are arranging for her to marry. She comes from a family with old customs, you see. But she falls in love with the soldier, and they have a wonderful affair. Then he is relocated somewhere else, but they continue writing letters to each other. And then--"

He paused for dramatic effect. "One day the letters from her stop coming. Fifty, sixty years later they bump into each other on the street. They're both widowed, and they fall back in love."

There was complete and total silence. He waited for approval from the others. They stared at him blankly. He felt rejected and was about to crawl back into his office chair, when Thomas started clapping. "I like it!" he beamed.

"I can't wait to compose some music for it!" Sydney rubbed his hands together gleefully.

The creative team began talking at once. Connor collapsed into his office chair, sighing in relief. He had thought they didn't like it.

Sophie came over to him. "That's a pretty good plot. I think people will enjoy it."

He grinned. "Thanks." He paused a moment. There was something about her, something other than her quiet beauty that was giving him butterflies in his stomach. He tried to force it away--She was _engaged!_--but it fluttered about, before perching heavily on his heart. She was perfect, but also perfectly unattainable.

"Will you have dinner with me?"

He couldn't believe he'd just said that. Was he crazy! He was crazy, crazy and falling head-over-heels for this woman he hardly knew. And yet a part of him felt that he already knew her. He tried to fix the awkward situation. "I have some other ideas I think pertain more to you, as the actress. I'd like your views on the characters, what you think are their motives. It'll be good character development, for both you and me."

She smiled. "Shouldn't that be 'you and I'?"

"Actually, 'both of us' would probably have worked better." He smiled in return and stood up. "Come over here around seven. I'll cook."

Sophie nodded. "It's a date."


End file.
